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OUT OF THE QUARREL WITH OURSELVES WE MAKE POETRY

SYRIA DECEMBER THIRD

My words are useless. They will not preventa single starving child or stitch in placean arm torn-off or smooth acid burned faceor turn aside the bloodiest eventheart can conceive. Perhaps announce my griefin organ tones of sorrow, bring a tearto hardest heart's stone eye. i disappearfrom my best work. A poet is a thiefwho stands inside the mirror of her eyeswatches the world bleed, but I can never changethe pieces that I steal, that I arrangein pleasing shapes. At best I offer liespretend that art can make what's damaged whole.I damn myself pretending to console.